Give My Love To All Who Remember Me
by maire2789
Summary: OTMA: What if they had lived? Their story is told through the eyes of Olga, as she and her sisters escape from Russia and follow their own paths to freedom.


Olga Romanova was born into a world of unparalleled wealth, daughter of a Tsar, niece of a King, the Granduchess of an empire on which the sun never set. While she was raised with her siblings in the comfortable seclusion of Tsarskoe Selo, the Tsar's Village, her cousins drew Europe and Russia into an oblivion of revolution, war and famine.

**FLIGHT**

It never turns dark here in the summer. I've grown used to that. But it's a different kind of light in Siberia.

Mother and my sisters are sleeping. She looks worn, and even in her sleep her face is pulled into a rictus of grief. She hasn't been the same since Yekaterinburg- none of us have. Even Anastasia is quiet. Everyone is quiet. I haven't heard Tatiana speak in almost a month.

Marie stirs in her sleep, and I pause, stop writing- my pen is oddly loud in the silence of the room, of the whole country. Our Friend used to say you could only see God clearly when you were in Siberia. He said it's where the earth meets the sky without interruption, the way God intended. How he claimed to love the silence. I feel as though it's eating me, my family, alive. And it only gets worse in winter, which is coming. The heather in the fields is turning brittle, and wherever we travel we see serfs bringing in their wheat harvests. "Like gold," I'd said. "It reminds me of Mama's court gown," Anastasia had commented absentmindedly. Mother looked stunned, and slapped her. We aren't allowed to talk about before the revolution any more. We aren't allowed to talk about after. We don't talk about much at all. So the silence is heavy. And for the most part, we don't want to talk anyways.

I pause again in my writing as I hear the footsteps of an approaching guard; a word that once made me feel safe, but now only makes my heart scream with anger, my soul fill with resentment. I know I'll be in trouble if anyone catches me writing (we are not supposed to leave any record of our own existence!), so I keep quiet. I write by the wan light of the midnight sun for the most part, and no one but Tatiana knows. She woke one night, thinking the scratching of my pen was a mouse. "What are you doing?" She whispered, the first time she'd spoken since Yekaterinburg. "Writing," I told her, not looking up. "You will ruin your eyes writing by evening light," She replied matter of factly. I kept writing, and she fell back asleep. She must not have even realized she was speaking, if awake at all. She hasn't mentioned it since.

And so I write until the wee hours of the morning and sleep most days. It's what we all do, as if maybe it can get us closer to Father or baby, as if we can dream our way back home.

--

They took away all our servants after Yekaterinburg. It was strange at first, but we girls have become used to doing things for ourselves. I can't admit it, but I sometimes enjoy the freedom, the independence. I could never tell anyone, especially not Tatiana, who now stands in for Demidova when Mama needs help, which is always. I think Anastasia enjoys this freedom also, but she is as right to keep 

her feelings quiet as I am. And it feels horrible to feel any kind of good feeling, any kind of happiness. The guilt is incomparable- for how can we be happy without father or baby? It isn't right. Yet I do, sometimes, despite all the agony of losing them. Father Grigory was right when he says Siberia is the land of God; there is no place on earth more beautiful or terrible, but then I suppose that is much like God anyways.

I looked in a puddle the other day and saw my reflection- how old I have gotten! I'm only twenty-two years old, yet I look at least thirty. I suppose I will never break my promise to remain Russian. Who would marry me now? Who would marry any of us? Even Tatiana looks worn. Only Marie has been spared some of her beauty, for her eyes are as beautiful a blue as ever. They make mother so sad she cannot bear to even look at poor Mashka, who reminds her of father. She can hardly stand to look at anyone except Tatiana. Tatiana, who could have been a queen! It all seems so unreal now, our lives. The lives we lead beforehand, rather. It's all like a dream; where you can just smell the flowers of the Crimea, but you can't actually touch them.

Tomorrow we're leaving here for some other small town; berg this, selo that. They are all the same. Small, muddy and very, very hot. Mashka told me that she overheard some of our captors discussing the possibility of us going to China! That would explain all the moving; we keep heading east, so far east it's west again it seems. Or at least, I believe it is east; without the Neva I haven't any idea of direction, and as it's always light, it's no use looking for a sunrise. I ache for the days when we believed Uncle George would send for us, save us. Our captors tell us he's given us up for dead, but they say it with such sneers I cannot take it seriously. Dead! I can only hope that they haven't given up on us, as the rest of the world seems to have. Mashka seems to believe the Whites are always just around the corner; she's always packed and ready to leave at a moment's notice should they arrive for us. I don't see nearly half as lucky a future, to be honest. It must be nearly 3 in the morning. I'm going to try and sleep.

--

The mud has given way to dust! And what dust it is! It reminds me of the pollen in the Crimea, only sour smelling and gritty. Tatiana has spent the whole day holding a handkerchief to mother's face and now her own eyes and mouth are caked with dirt. She won't complain though. I half wish she would.

Did I mention that we had to abandon the railway after Yekaterinburg? There is no more railway. Just roads, just rutted, dirty, muddy and then dusty dirt roads. We usually ride at the bottom of a hay cart in a kind of canopy when we're ordered to hide ourselves. At first we just had to make do in the hay; Mother and I both have horrid allergies to the stuff, we were always in a state of misery. But one day Anastasia brought us the canopy! She made it herself, God knows where she found the materials or the time (I have a sneaking suspicion that the left section of the canopy is one of Tatiana's dresses). But bless her, it is such a relief. We snuck it under the hay with us and made a lovely little tent, which looks out on the country side, yet shields us from view. But unfortunately, not from the dust.

The new town we are staying at- rather, village- doesn't even have a name. The locals call it Buchta (yes, I have been brushing up on my eavesdropping skills), and apparently they don't even know 

about the revolution! They don't even know about Father! They still think grandfather is Emperor; grandfather, who died even before I was born. They don't know about telephones- they don't have any electricity. They have never heard of an aeroplane, much less seen one, and the same is true for moving pictures. There is not one camera in the whole place! Is it telling that, though I am amazed, I am not too surprised by this? I will never admit it (like so many other things) but I am very curious to see this village. I wonder what the inhabitants are like, how they live. It must be very medieval (even though mother gets quite upset whenever I describe anything pre-motorcar as 'medieval'). Well, tomorrow we shall see.

--

We arrived at Buchta today; I have never seen a more uncivilized place in all my life! People keep cows in the middle of town. They live in dachas that more closely resemble huts than houses. There is not a working modern W.C. in the whole place. When Tatiana asked, the guard made it known to us that there won't be anymore w.c.s on this trip, and that we'll have to make do living like the rest of Russia! Thank god mother didn't hear him say that; I know Tatiana will break it to her in a more gentle way.

I had half hoped that someone would recognize us, or at least Marie, who looks very much like Grandmother, but so far no one has. Now that we're far enough from civilization that no one recognizes us (or so our captors say), so we're more or less free to walk about undisguised (although guarded, as always). We certainly get plenty of stares- our skin is so white and unlined compared to these people, who hardly look like the kind of Russian we are used to anyways. "They look like Japs," I heard Marie say to Anastasia, and I agree. They look more Chinese than anything else; the farther you go east, the more Asiatic the Russian people become, Uncle Nikolasha had once told me. I suppose that is true. But how they stare! The men, especially- not so much at me or Anastasia or Tatiana (who always looks so miserable these days) - but at Marie! Poor Marie, she turns so red! She's absolutely mortified. But they don't stare at us like the guards in Yekaterinburg or Tobolsk did- they stare at us more reverently, like we're descended from the clouds or some such. It must seem so to them, covered in dirt and sweat and rags as they are!

We are staying in the closest thing they've got to a proper house in Buchta; a tiny ramshackle wooden dacha that belongs to the headman. We're all in one room with several guards- it also functions as the kitchen, and there's a little stove in the middle of the room that is currently growling at me ill temperedly. Why it's even on I don't know: it is sweltering in here! Perhaps our captors just enjoy self torture.

We ran into a little dog by as we walked about the village today. He looked very much like Anastasia's Jimmy, and so of course she wept when she saw him, for she knows as well as we all do that our captors would never allow us a pet, even one so useful and quiet as the poor little puppy that sat before us then! Anastasia fed him some bread she'd been keeping in her pocket for lunch and patted him on the head, but there wasn't much more we could do for the dear thing without getting ourselves into a hysterical state, so we left for a pond we'd seen on the way into Buchta. We'd also resolved to cheer up Tatiana and had managed to get her away for the hour as mother took a nap.

We reached the pond in good time, despite the guards who lagged behind us, smoking cigars and exclaiming over pictures of their families. I'd often wondered just what kind of people they were, to be so cruel to us and speak so lovingly of their little children. The pond was small and pathetically muddy. Huge algae blooms floated on the surface like blinis in butter. The banks were sloping but hopelessly slick with muck and clay. I'd been hoping we might have been able to sit beside the little pond, too, but it looked as though that was no longer an option.

Just as I'd made up my mind to leave for the dacha, Anastasia 'slipped' in the mud, and down she went, stumbling down the bank and into the murky water, where she commenced to start screaming: "Oh! I'm drowning! Help! Help me, sweet Madonna!" The guards, completely oblivious to the fact that Anastasia is in fact a very adequate swimmer, leapt in after her, or rather, sloshed in. The more lanky of the two lost his boots, and the fat one became hopelessly mired in thigh deep sludge. Anastasia, the whole time, was screaming pathetically and very convincingly drowning, slipping under the water and letting bubbles escape before returning to the surface, spluttering and hacking and screaming like some sort of demented siren. The thin one managed to reach her, and somehow got her out and onto dry land before returning to his mate, who had by now sunk nearly waist-deep into the mud. The whole time Marie, I, and most importantly, Tatiana, were suppressing tears of laughter in between cries of, "Oh, Anastasia, our dear baby sister! Oh! Nearly drowned!" as we fussed over an 'exhausted' Anastasia and our captors below us attempted to escape the muddy clutches of the pond. When they finally clambered on to the grassy slope where we stood, still fanning a 'hysterical' Anastasia, they were both bootless, hatless, and the fat one was wearing nothing but his army johns!

And then we all, but Anastasia, who was still panting rather dramatically, burst out laughing. Thanks be to God, they both seemed too tired to be angry!

I must say, it was a rather satisfying day.

--

I had a dream about Father last night; I had been walking through a wheat field, for what felt like a very long time, and I was horribly tired, my legs felt like lead weights, and my whole body seemed to ache with exhaustion. Suddenly, I saw Father standing on the hill above me. For some reason, he looked very young, as young as he was when he first married Mother. I tried to call out his name, but my lips were just as tired as the rest of me, and I could only murmur. But he looked down and saw me, and smiled. He waited for me to reach the top of the hill. When I joined him, he gazed at me for a long moment, very seriously, too, before extending his hand towards the gathering dusk. Then I woke up! You can't imagine how upset I was! I had so wanted to hear Father speak again, to talk with him, if only in a dream. I told Anastasia about this dream, and she said that she has dreams about Father and Baby all the time, and that they always talk to her. I don't know why, but that made me very angry, so I left in a huff for the pond. I sat there, throwing pebbles and other little bits of debris into the murky water, for what must have been at least an hour. I was mulling over how insensitive Anastasia was and how unfair life was when a rather grimy boy came up to me and poked my side with his foot.

"What do you want?" I'd snapped, quite unladylike, but at that moment I had no interest in being proper. He pulled out a crumpled piece of flyer paper and unfolded it before me. It was a 300 year anniversary flyer with our pictures on it!

"This girl looks much like you." He said, pointing to my tiny, blurry face. I wanted to scream for joy: someone recognized me!

"Where did you get this?" I asked him. He shrugged.

"The Headman works with traders from the west. This was in one of their packs."

"You stole it!" I cried, surprised but still too delighted to be in anyway upset by the prospect.

"No one would believe me if I'd just told them about the death of the Tsar; I needed proof."

"What do you mean?"

"I can't read, but this is the imperial crest." He pointed a dirty fingernail at our family's emblem. "And this," He pointed to Father, "Is not the emperor."

I stared at him. "Does anyone believe you?"

"No." He said, without much apparent distress. "Strange, isn't it?" He said.

"Oh yes, very! That no one knows about the...the emperor!"

He looked at me quizzically. "You do?"

I stared at him for a moment. How stupid I was!

"No," I said. "I don't."

He stared at me, hard. Then turned back to the flyer.

"This one, she's pretty. Who is she?" He pointed to Marie.

I opened my mouth, and then shut it. "I don't... that's the Grand Duchess Marie."

He laughed. "You do know!"

"Well, yes, but it's fairly common knowledge!"

"Where are you from, anyways?"

We'd been trained to respond to this question by our captors. "From Feodorev."

He squinted. "Where's that?"

"Back west."

"Why are you in Buchta?"

"We're visiting family."

He snorted, looked at me as though I was crazy, folded up the flyer, and turned to leave.

"Where are you going?!" I cried, irrationally angry.

"I've got work to do."

"Well, go do it then!" I shouted, and I turned back to the water, suddenly infuriated again. Stupid boy! Stupid people! They don't know anything, anything at all. What I'd really wanted to do was tear that silly flyer from his hands and keep it for myself, just so I could see father and baby again, and hold on to them, something you can't do in a dream.

--

There are few people I can see in my face that I truly know. Marie looks just like grandmother- Anastasia just like mother, and Tatiana just like papa. Mother says I look like her father. I never met my grandfather Louis- in fact; I never met either of my grandfathers. They both died before I was born. So did my mother's mama- so I only have one grandparent- Grandmamma Marie. I also had one great grandparent- Queen Victoria. She died when I was 5- I only remember Mama crying, and wanting to go to her funeral very much, but being unable to- probably because Anastasia was due to be born any day. Mama wore black for a whole year, I remember. She wanted us to, also, but Grandmamma refused, saying it was morbid.

How long ago it seems now! Of course, it was. It has been a very, very long time. It's a whole different world. The things we all thought so constant, the things we assumed to be the rightful laws of the very universe itself have now been proven to be very transient indeed.

Imperial rule, vanquished, all around the world. Many monarchies, many branches of our old and twisted family tree have fallen. I can't believe it, but I must if I'm to ever come to terms with this situation and survive.

But enough of my gloomy musings- I'm rather afraid our captors have come to understand the insincerity of our predicament the other day. They lined us all up, outside, thankfully, of Mother's earshot, and gave us quite the dressing down.

"You are in a very precarious position to be playing such games," Said Vasilivich, the 'second in command'. Apparently Gorogin thought it beneath him to discipline us, though I shouldn't complain, he's a much nastier man.

Which isn't to say Vasilivich isn't also. Among other things, he threatened to take Mother's umbrella, which left Tatiana so outraged she spat on the ground. Vasilivich seemed oddly surprised by this, and didn't seem to deem it necessary to punish us any further. The rest of our time here in Buchta must be spent indoors, crowded around the hot, overpowering stove.

The one good thing is that we are finally alone; the guards can hardly stand it in the dacha in such heat, so they all stand outside, fanning themselves with their canteens. Anastasia and I are sitting against the far wall, as far from the stove as we can get. Mother, who complains of chills, is close to the roaring stove. Tatiana and Marie are hovering over her, eager to appease her. Shielded by the crackle of flames, Anastasia and I can talk, unheard by Mama or our sisters.

The one topic which consumes us is our destination. We know we cannot go back; we can only look forward. It seems that Anastasia and I are the only ones to fully accept this. Whenever we find time to speak, the discussion turns inevitably to where we might be going.

"They'll probably do a trade in the pacific!" Anastasia whispers. This is her adamant argument; like Marie, she believes the Whites are around every corner, and even more so, that they'd do anything to save us personally, rather than just the autocracy. She insists that, with the help of Uncle George and the Americans, the Whites will come to save us in no time at all. "Maybe we'll get to see Jim again, Olya!" She murmurs, excited. But I can only shake my head.

"Even if they were going to do a trade, which I doubt, Nastya, the odds that Jim Hercules would be on that self same ship would be very slight indeed. " I tell her. Anastasia becomes quite upset whenever I question her fantasies, and now she's left to go attend to Mother with Marie and Tatiana.

I have a theory, of course. One I have pieced together far more through observation and over-hearings than out of pure desire. It's the slanted eyes and weather beaten skin the color of coffee of these Russians that makes me think of Asia. And thanks be to God, I had enough sense to pay attention during current events to know the name Pu Yi. For it is that name I hear most whispered by our captors, more so than 'King George' or even 'The Americans'. They aren't going to 'trade' us; they're trying to hide us.

--

I can hear them now, over the rolling of the cart's wheels. China. The Forbidden City. They aren't even trying to keep it quiet anymore. Mother is crying in to her handkerchief. I can't tell if they're tears of terror or gratitude, and for all I know of Mama's opinions on the Chinese, it could be either.

We left Buchta 3 days ago, and things have been so hectic I haven't had any time to record the many thoughts and emotions swirling in my head. We were sitting around the stove, our third day of punishment, and the weather had finally turned, so we no longer complained about the heat, but rather huddled against the sudden cold that came in the evenings. Anastasia had just returned from outside, and she waddled over to me, clutching at her thin summer coat. She leaned down under the guise of retrieving the tea pot, and whispered in my ear, "They're moving us tomorrow. Better get your things packed."

The news had barely hit me when I was overcome with a burning, intense desire. I had to find that boy. I had to have that flyer. I don't know why; but it was overpowering. Luckily, though often impulsive, I am not stupid. Despite the screaming in my heart, I approached the door guard.

"W.C.," I muttered, and he smirked at me, gesturing into the cold night. They knew I wouldn't run for it, and even if I did, I'd be dead by morning. "A Siberian Summer Night is a turncoat," Our Friend had told us. "Cold enough to kill in a scant few hours, and you'd never guess it would, with the day being so warm." Sure enough, the cold is shocking. I know I don't have much time- either before the guards get me or the cold does. But the main settlement of Buchta can be no more than 100 paces in any one direction. I don't have the boy's name, but I don't need it. He's dirty; he's a thief. The outskirts of town- even I know that is where to find someone of his description.

I can spot him from a mile away-even in the gathering darkness, now that the midnight sun has passed with the season. The black hair, the dirty coat and the cracked horse leather shoes. Flyer Boy.

He of course, hears me before I reach him. He turns in surprise, and smiles rather evilly. "Western girl!" He laughs, somewhat derisively. So we now have names for each other.

"That flyer- do you- do you still have it?" I beg him, almost too pathetic. I try to remember what Anna told me about bargain shopping; by her standards I have probably already failed miserably. Flyer boy eyes me cautiously.

"Yes. What do you want with it?" He asks, apprehensive.

"Well, I'd like if I could perhaps, um, purchase it?" I ask- so stupid sounding!

The boy looks at me, then back at the flyer. We're closer now- I want to be in snatching distance of that flyer if that's what it comes to. But he looks up, suddenly solemn, and hands me the flyer without protest.

"Take it," He says. "You and those girls- this is you. I know it. Anyone could tell." I am afraid he sees the panic in my face, but he assures me. "Don't worry; I've shown no one else. I would have, but if I'm right about those men with you, something quite unfortunate has happened to the Tsar, to Russia herself. And I don't want to get myself or my village caught up in it. So, take this flyer with you, wherever you're about to go. You should probably destroy it, truthfully."

I stare at him, and I choke out, "I can't."

He nods. "I understand. I'll keep an ear out for you-" And he squints at the paper still clutched in my hand. "Olga Nicolaevna."

I turned, and ran. I made it back to the house out of breath, and the guards laughed, but I didn't care. I moved as quickly yet quietly as I could to the backside of the stove, and withdrew the flyer. I shielded it with my hands; Gorogin and Vasilivich stood against the far corner and probably couldn't see me, but I took no chances. As I opened it again, a little scrap of paper fell out, and drifted to the floor. I caught it up in my hands, and in the meager light, I could just make out the following:

I knew you would come for it. Do not give up hope. You will be freed. 

The prayers of Russia are with you. Your friend in Christ, Ilya.

I burned it. They can never know, but I can carry it in my heart forever.

They all fell asleep- Mama, Tatiana, Marie, even Anastasia. But not I. Nor did our captors. Ilya's message kept me awake, burning with an inner flame that wouldn't let me sleep; not that I wished to- I desired no more sleep until I was free again.

--

The cold has come.

The paper is brittle and the ink almost dry, but I'll write till my very fingers fall off from frostbite, if it comes to that.

The first snow was waiting for us- we'd barely passed the town limits when it fell. As Buchta had just faded into the distance, a group of riders swam out of the sleet and dashed past us, their blazing red uniforms immediately identifying them as Cossacks- and above that, the imperial standard. Whites.

Our captors took aim at the Cossacks, but before they could shoot the riders had sped off into the snow again. But we had seen them- I heard mother cry aloud; "Good Russians!" as if she could not believe it. Anastasia gripped at my arm; "I told you!" She cried. But sudden gunshots halted our joy, and we were reminded of our situation. We were still in the possession of the Reds. Anastasia's hand loosed on my arm and she slid to the bottom of the cart and groaned in disappointment.

--

We've rarely stopped to rest in the past few weeks; we keep heading further south, along the coast. Last night we went to sleep amid Russian plains and this morning we awoke in a Mongolian desert. The cold is harsher now, and the scant snow that falls is mixed with grit and sand. Anastasia improvised again and covered our heads with blankets, as if we were Turks. The sand and wind still find their way inside our scarves, but less than before.

I've been trying very hard to remember the very few bits of Chinese I learned from the resident ambassador, but nothing comes to mind. I remember for a brief period of time the ambassador had started pressing father to allow Marie to marry the young Emperor, but Papa always laughed it off. He had even brought pictures of the emperor, and even insisted that Marie look at them. Papa had entertained him, and Marie came back to us, laughing; "He has funny spectacles! Not like an emperor at all!" Apparently the emperor had received a postcard of our family from his tutor while he was visiting in Russia, and the emperor had remarked upon Marie. Anastasia insists she heard the ambassador talking about it with Witte; he had a copy of the postcard and pointed each of us out- "The emperor says Grand Duchess Tatiana is too oriental, Anastasia is too boyish, and Olga's head is too round. He is infatuated with the Grand Duchess Marie." Too round of a head! I do not believe one word of it. Anastasia tells such fibs! She is, of course, quite taken with the idea of living in an oriental court; I assume she thinks it 

will be some kind of 'Grand Adventure'. She is always going on about Grand Adventures and some such nonsense.

Tatiana insists that she still can't get Mama to talk; she's been trying to get her to tell us what she knows about the Chinese, but every time she opens her mouth, Tatiana insists, she starts to weep and then sleeps for hours afterwards. She hardly eats anything as it is, so we've decided to stop bothering her and try to let her recuperate her strength.

Marie knows more about the Chinese than the rest of us, as the ambassador liked to corner her when he could and try to spin tales of titles like 'Empress of a 1,000 Years' and so on in an attempt to win her hand for the emperor. She can only provide a few details; the emperor is 16, he is emperor in name only, and we would have to meet with the new Chinese president if we were to gain asylum in China. He has two wives and he has never left his palace complex, and he has an English tutor who knows Uncle George, or so she was told. He also loves cars, and was a big fan of Papa's collection.

I wonder what they did with Papa's cars.

--

We saw our first Mongolians today. Our captors had stopped by a small herding village to forage for food, as we have so little left. (You would not believe how thin Anastasia has become, and Tatiana is pure skin and bone!)

The Mongolians live in large, round tents- they are nomads and move with the seasons. They are very short and their eyes are so slanted I can't understand how they see well at all, but they must, for they spotted us quite before we spotted them, and introduced themselves; riding caribou, rather than horses! They lead us back to their village and offered our captors supplies of caribou meat and milk. They were quite shocked to see us girlies though; apparently they'd never seen white women before, and they took quite an interest in our hair color and wide eyes. They even snipped some of Anastasia's hair off when she wasn't looking.

Our dresses having been worn to mere shreds, one of the women took pity on us and gave us some Mongolian clothing; brightly colored breeches, tall boots and warm, patterned, padded jackets with fleece hats. The women took a special interest in Tatiana, perhaps because of her oriental looks, and gave her mounds of silver trinkets to wear; seeing mother's horror at the thought of it, she kindly returned them. Mother refused the clothes, except for one- a large mink coat in the western style; she swept it around her and marched back to the carriage- our captors had to verily carry her, in stony silence, to the huts when dinner was served. I'm not sure what dinner _was _exactly, but it tasted awful. Of course, we would have eaten it even if we hadn't been starved, as we'd hate to dishonor our hosts but as it was, we were so hungry we shoveled it in. Excepting Tatiana and Mama, who merely picked at their dinners. We went to sleep in the tents, and now I sit here, just outside the door, writing in the moonlight. Although it is cold, it is quite beautiful here. I think I should like to be a Mongolian.

--

We left the herding village today. We're headed to Ulan Bator, the capital, where we will meet the Emir of Mongolia, Udak Yulot. Mother's eyes lit up when she heard this; apparently she'd met him before.

"Yulot?" She asked Vasilivich, who nodded and then turned and left for the front of the caravan. Mother nestled deeper into her fur coat and stared at us, the expression in her eyes for once not broken and agonized. "I knew him, before-" She murmured. "A wonderful man, from the consulate. He was so sweet and innocent, though he tried so very hard to be European, to be Western…" She laughed a little then, which sounded so strange; I had not heard Mama laugh like that since before Yekaterinburg. "He had such affection for your Aunt Olga; he was quite smitten… would always ask to escort her at dinners and plays…" She smiled softly then and grasped Tatiana's hand. "Oh, my girls, I think we stand quite a good chance of freedom from these horrid beasts, if Emir Yulot is to be involved." Anastasia and Marie squealed, embraced each other, and then collapsed on Mama and Tati in a cacophony of hugs and kisses. We all laughed and embraced, as if we'd just met again after years of separation.

Later that night, after my sisters had fallen asleep in our jostling carriage, Mama motioned me over. She gripped my hands in hers and stared at me with deep eyes.

"Olga. My Olinshka. How you have grown. "

I could say nothing, for yes, it was true. But how sadly had I!

Mama sighed and stared out at the dark, barren countryside as it passed us in the night. She dipped her hand into her bodice and pulled out her wedding and engagement rings. She had fastened them to a little chain which she tied under her chemise, so our captors would not find them. They still hesitated to touch us, but in particular mother. Something about her bearing stopped them- she must have reminded them of their own mothers, or maybe they could not quite shake the superstition that their Tsarina was brought them by God. With a thoughtful finger Mama traced the pink pearl in her engagement ring. After a while, she sighed, and handed it to me, placing in my palm and closing my fingers around it.

"Mama-?" I protested, but she shook her head, and her eyes were oddly light, lighter than I had seen them in years, lighter than I almost ever recall them being.

"Olinshka, my girl. Do you know whose pearl this is?" She asked me, a faint smile on her lips.

"Yours, Mama, it is yours-"I started, but she shook her head.

"No, Olga. No, it is not mine. It was your ancestor Catherine's. "She paused, and took the ring from my hand again and held it up in the moonlight, her eyes reflecting its silver-pink sheen. "It was given to her by her father, who loved her very dearly and was quite sad to see her leave for Russia. It was once in a necklace. She wore it every day, and when she died, this simple pearl was placed away with all the other many jewels she had owned throughout her long life. It lay in a plain little maple box with her initials, as it was first given to her, and in the jewel vault it would lay for another 100 years. Then, one day, it would be found again, by your father. He was looking for an engagement ring, and 

unsatisfied with the choices thus far presented to him, he decided to look through the vault himself. He found this pearl, in its little maple box, buried under the most minor of jewels, for it was quite minor itself. He gave it to me in Darmstadt, in the same little maple box. 'The other jewels have no meaning, Alicky,' He told me, 'And so I found one, though plain, that did. Because you have much more meaning to me than money could ever buy in jewels to signify.'" Mother smiled, her eyes misting with tears. "I miss him so, Olinshka. All that matters to me now is that you girls are safe. And that Catherine's pearl be kept with you, Olya."

I didn't know what to say.

"Do you intend to leave us?" I asked, my voice quavering. "How can you anyhow? How can you? You are too ill to go anywhere without Tatiana, Mama!"

Mama shook her head. "No, I would not leave you by my own free will. But who knows what these men shall do, or what shall be decided in Ulan Bator. We must be prepared. "She curled my fingers once more around her rings. "Take it. Hide it away, my love. "Mama kissed me one last time on the cheek before turning over on her side and settling into sleep. I waited till her breathing became heavy before slipping the chain into my dress.

It is cold and the air his harsh, but for once I feel something similar to a glimmer of hope in my chest. So far, no Whites. But maybe Yulot will help us. Maybe someone will finally help us!

--

The desert goes on; this is the first time I've written in nearly a week! Our food is dwindling; rations have been cut, and there is almost no water left. One of them men succumbed to heatstroke today. Gorogin would not stop the caravan, so he lay where he died. Marie cried, but the rest of us were indifferent. Our hearts are hardened to these beasts.

I would just about die if I ever had the chance to eat blini again. If I had a samovar and some good borscht, I would be just about the happiest girl on the face of the earth!

--

Mama's good spirits have made another appearance. Today she actually sang a hymn with us; a devotional Jim Hercules taught her, actually. Something about Georgia- Anastasia is humming some now-

"_Oh take me home, O Lord, take me home to Georgia _

_Where the fields are green and the rivers run deep!_

_Take me home to Georgia O Lord, _

_Take me home or let me sleep!"_

It was certainly an odd choice for Mama, who quite prefers Ave Marias to common devotionals. Yet when she heard Anastasia mention Jim she started humming it straight away, and we all joined in, for how often do we have the chance to sing anymore, let alone with Mama? 

The dust and snow have faded, as the ground becomes hard as rock and the heat climbs. Anastasia was the first of us to cast aside decency and remove the jacket the Mongolians had given her; I suppose I shall join her shortly, and surprises of surprises, Mama has already removed her fur coat and even her shawl! Our captors suffer for it though; they march in the heat while we lay in carts. For once it is preferable to sit imprisoned than to run free.

We came upon a strange sight today; a trail of camels, and on their backs a group of Mongolians and a pair of Englishmen!

Our captors were so desperate for food and water that they did not hesitate to greet the travelers. Our cart pulled up alongside them; it's nearly broken wheels creaking in the dust. It had been slow going, and I'd heard several of the men discussing the purchase of a camel to pull us along, as they'd been doing all the work since the horse died back in Siberia.

The English couple was all dressed in white; the woman had a large picture hat, of the kind Mama favored, but that had gone out of style in the past few years. She towered over her companion, even on camel back, and her face was swathed in netting. The fellow with her was wearing a sharp looking little suit; I noted again that it was almost ten years out of date.

Vasilivich walked up to the man and introduced himself in broken English.

"Lost," He said, gesturing at us all without further explanation. "Food? Water?"

The man on the camel cocked his head and chuckled. "Surely you've come quite unprepared! Quite expect us to share with you, do you?"

Vasilivich looked confused. "English? I not speak."

The man in white rolled his eyes and shot a look of exasperation in the direction of his indiscernible companion. "Oh Dear."

Then, suddenly, Mama stood up from the hay. Our captors shouted in surprise and some reached for their guns, but Vasilivich barked out a halt and they lowered their weapons.

"I speak English, Vasilivich," Mama said, coldly triumphant. "Or have you forgotten where I was raised?"

Vasilivich chewed on his cheek, glowering.

"You want food from them; you want water, maybe even a camel? That you should even doubt my ability!" Mama actually laughed at him, and I gripped Tatiana's arm in horror- surely Vasilivich would shoot her for her insolence!

But he did nothing of the sort. Instead, he replied in a clipped tone, "Ask them for as much as you can. Do not tell them who you are, or I shall kill the lot of you."

Mother laughed bitterly, and shook her head. "Silly man, as if I didn't know you that well." She turned then to the couple and called out.

"Hello. Forgive my friend here, he's quite bossy you see," Mama volunteered. "I assume from your accents that you are Londoners, born and raised?" She smiled at them, apparently genuinely pleased to see someone English. The man's mouth dropped open, and he adjusted the tiny spectacles perched on his nose.

"Good Lord," He exclaimed in quite shock, "I haven't heard a well turned British voice like that in years."

His companion had stood up straight at Mama's voice, and now she pushed away some of the netting from her face, so that she could better see Mama. She had dark, romantic eyes and creamy skin. "That's the Queen's English, Harold. I'd know that accent anywhere," She said. Mama turned pale. "The real question is, what's an English princess doing in the Gobi desert?" She shielded her eyes from the sun. "And in so sorry a state."

I saw Anastasia visibly bristle at this, but I held her arm. If we all popped up at once, this woman would straight away know who we were, and we would all be killed.

"I've no idea what you mean," Mama said, clearly flustered; I could see her skin reddening as it was. Vasilivich's eyes darted back and forth between Mama and the woman.

The woman laughed; it was a tinkling, delicate sound. She slid down from the camel and approached mother. Mama stood stiff, still smiling, but with frozen eyes. The woman paused before the cart.

"Why don't you come down?" She asked, an eyebrow arched. Mama shook her head.

"I-I'm afraid I can't. I'd rather not."

"Why not?" The woman asked. She stepped closer and peered at Mama's face. "You look very familiar to me."

Mama suddenly cast around, her eyes wild, and sputtered out in an outrageously jocular voice, "I am certain I am! In fact, let me venture so far as to say that I am quite well known and recognized around the world! But, please know that it would be very bad for all of us if these men were to hear you say my name or in any other way indicate that you recognize me!"

The woman paused for a minute, and her companion adjusted his glasses again. "What-What, Emma?"

Emma laughed and cried back, "Shut up Harold!" Harold was silenced.

"Would your grandmother, Madame, happen to have been married to a fellow named Albert?" She asked, mimicking mother's happy tone.

"Indeed, that she was!" Mother laughed back.

"And," The woman laughed again, "Would you happen to have four daughters?"

"That I would; why don't we change subjects so as to keep my friend happy?" Mama replied as she shot Vasilivich a look which said patience.

Emma took this cue in stride. She placed her hands on her hips and replied in an angry voice, "Madame, I would be most delighted to play hostess to your party. Please tell me, are you in any danger, for it certainly seems so. Perhaps we could help?"

"I would prefer," Mama replied in a pleading voice, "That you do nothing rash and chase such thoughts out of your head. It is too dangerous. Simply do what I say."

Emma looked cross, but nodded. "Certainly Madame. Certainly. Tell your 'friend' that we would be glad to have you back at our camp."

Mama did so, and Vasilivich actually smiled. Mother sat back down amongst us, shaking. Tatiana fanned her and shot frantic looks at us. Mama did not look well at all- she was damp with perspiration and she clutched at her heart. Our cart started rolling again, and we followed the Englishmen to their camp.

It was so strange, so dream-like, so very difficult to describe. White huts stood beside gauzy white tents, their transparent walls drifting in the hot wind. Emma slid down from her camel and made her way over to one of the tent s on a long Persian carpet. Harold followed, clambering down awkwardly. Tati and I stood and helped mother out of the cart; she was weak, and they'd taken her cane. Tatiana linked one of mother's arms and I the other. Anastasia and Marie followed us at a close distance, guards on either side. We must have been quite a sight: what with Mama in her tattered dress and us girls in our Mongolian costumes. Emma and Harold stood when we entered the tent. My heart stammered, but Vasilivich did not seem to notice. A servant produced some chairs, and we girls all sat down. Vasilivich was the only one of our captors to receive a chair or enter the tent, and then at Mama's insistence. That was not so good; the suspicious look in his eyes had returned. However, his attention was diverted when a wonderful little lunch was presented before us: ham cutlets and romaine with wine! How long it has been since I've eaten so many wonderful things!

Emma had removed her netting and was eager to explain her reasons for living in the Gobi and to hear more from us.

"I was born in London, as you guessed, Harold and I both- cousins you see. My father was the Earl of Glastonbury; I recall seeing you once or twice in court as a girl. Of course, you would not remember. Court function."

Mother shook her head. "No. No, I do not recall you exactly, but your mother is still fresh in my mind. You are her mirror image."

Emma laughed, that same tinkling sound. "Why thank you. I suppose I had better explain all this," She gestured about her to her exotic surroundings, "and learn what I can from you thereafter. Well," She began, taking a sip from her glass, "I never married. I always wanted to be an adventuress. I've been abroad with Harold since 1905. I've been all over; America, South America, China, Africa, the list goes on. But my heart fell in love with the Gobi, and these amazing people." She nodded to her Mongolian companions. "So clever and quick on their feet; the very best kind of people to have around for both conversation and in case of emergency, I've found. You see, they don't say much. But in any case, I've lost all contact with the West. These clothes were made for me in China; as far as I know they are the height of fashion. However, judging by your outfit, Madame, I am mistaken. Last I knew, Edward was King and Alexandra was queen. Perhaps you have important news to tell me, then, if you, for whatever reason, are here and in such a state?"

Before Mama could speak, Anastasia cried it all out in a torrent.

"A horrible war! It's all the war's fault, and Uncle Willy- oh, millions have died, we can still scarce believe it. Papa and baby-"

Mother moaned but did not move; to give anything away meant death, and Vasilivich was watching again.

Anastasia let out a shuddery sigh, and sobered herself. "The archduke was shot, and his wife. There was a war, a terrible war. Everything but your home is gone; no more kingdoms." It was all she could choke out without giving anything away to Vasilivich, who was staring at her like a wolf. Emma's eyes had widened, and pain was apparent in them.

"Oh my. Oh Lord. How awful. How horrible. And I take it you are one of these dead kingdoms?" She murmured, in an inconsequential term. Vasilivich snorted and turned back to his plate.

Mama nodded stiffly. "Yes."

Harold groaned, and shook his head. "What is this world coming to? Uncivilized!"

"Uncle Bertie is dead, by the way," Muttered Anastasia. This seemed to provoke a much more impassioned reaction out of Emma and Harold. They glanced at one another and gasped in shock. Emma let out a little sob that she disguised as a hiccup. Her hand trembled as she extended it to Harold, who gripped it till his knuckles turned white.

"Bertie, you say? The old guff?" He asked, weakly.

"Yes," Anastasia replied. "Almost ten years now. 1910."

A horrified look passed between Emma and Harold; Emma could only sigh sadly and turn to her plate again. Moments of silence passed as the two Englishmen picked at their food dejectedly. But suddenly, Emma looked up at us.

"Just look at your clothes! Such pretty girls in such ugly tatters! We must remedy that." She stood at once and beckoned for us to follow her. We followed her to one of the yurts, Vasilivich leaving us be for a moment as he was too preoccupied with his dinner. Emma threw open the door flap and we climbed inside, into a small, round room covered in tapestries and richly colored carpets. Chests, wardrobes and steamer trunks covered the floor. Emma whisked over to a wardrobe and withdrew a number of dresses; similar in style to hers and all, as hers, white. She hustled over to us and laid one in each of our arms.

"Yours, my dears. I can always buy more. Who knows when you shall next find some decent clothes?"

Tatiana's eyes lit slowly; how she had loved clothing before! But before she could move, Mama had laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Not yet, Tati. No, save it for China. You shall want to make a good impression. " Mother murmured. She turned to Emma and held out her arms. "Thank you so very much. A good Englishwoman-"

"Is so very hard to find these days!" Emma finished the sentence for her, and rushed to embrace her. Mama blushed, then laughed, and hugged her back.

Emma threw up her hands and began to sing;

"_Oh me I am an English lass!_

_And I'll die twice before I fly the Union Jack!_

_For its only two colors for me;_

_Red and white, front to back!" _

Mama laughed, and clapped her hands, and also sang;

"_Oh me I am an English girl! _

_Plumb the depths of any sea_

_But not another will you find of me_

_For oh me I am an English pearl!"_

They joined hands and danced; we girls hung to the side. We were not English. But for the first time in my life, I could see how dearly Mama missed England, and how English she truly was. And how she must have been, before life made her hard and bitter and sad.

--

We left the Emma and Harold today, camel and food and water and dresses and new wheels and all. Emma had embraced mother with a fervor I've never seen in a proper English lady, and mother embraced her right back.

" Take care, lovey. Take care." Emma whispered, and she blinked back tears. Harold stood at a distance, furiously wiping his glasses, clearly upset. Mama held Emma at an arm's length.

"I wish I had something to give, rather than take away."

Emma shook her head. "Do not think on it. Write me when and if you can. Girls," She called over mother's shoulder, "Be good. Be brave."

And then she turned on her heel and left us, sliding back on to her camel and disappearing into the haze with the rest of her party.

Vasilivich turned to us, eyes burning.

"If something goes wrong, you know what will happen." He said not a word more, and left us to climb into our cart.

I had been surprised he hadn't been more demanding with Mama at Emma's camp, but when I asked Marie about this, she had shrugged. "I suppose he wanted to eat, and that's all he could think of. Have you seen their eyes, Olya? We're all hungry, but they're practically starving! They look like wolves half the time."

I think they look like wolves all the time, but I was not going to argue this fine point with Marie. Instead I listened to our captors talk.

"20 miles from Ulan, they said. We'll be there in a day."

"What will they do with them there?"

"Who knows. Maybe you'll get a daughter!"

"Don't say that, you pigs."

"Shut up yourself, Andrei."

I turned away then; I didn't want to listen to their smut. 20 miles. We'll be there in a day. Ulan Bator. And maybe freedom.

--

DEATH AND ESCAPE

Ulan Bator appeared before us like a patchwork quilt; colorful yurts stretched into the haze, the rim of the city just visible, but as insubstantial as a reflection in a river. Sparse spirals of smoke hung in the air, which is so thin that Mama has visible trouble breathing in it. She clutches a rag to her face and lies at the bottom of our cart; she looks far worse than she has in a long time, very pale. Tatiana is hopeful that this Yulot fellow will find us a doctor. I can only hope; I have never seen Mama look quite this ill. I am worried.

As we entered the city dogs and small children scattered before us; the gatekeeper (a loose term, for the city was largely defenseless) hadn't even checked for Visas- one look at Vasilivich and Gorogin's unhappy faces and large guns and the gatekeeper opened the door without inquiry. We jostled into the city; Mama's face blanching with every jostle and bump. We descended among the yurts and watched in silence as the city passed us by. It was so very strange; all those small, silent Mongolians, watching us like oriental angels on judgment day. After a time, we reached the consulate's house; it was a strange thing, made of wood and two stories, covered in ginger bread decoration and in the round shape of yurt. It was apparent that Udak Yulot had loved most things Western, but hadn't been quite able to discard his Asian heritage. Mother smiled up at the building.

"I've never been here before," She said, "But this is exactly how I imagined it. Tati, help me up, would you?"

Tatiana helped mother into a standing position, and brushed her off. We stood and followed them into the house, which, some of Gorogin's men being sent ahead before hand, had already been made aware of our entrance, and was open and waiting. The foyer smelled deliciously of tea and peppermint; the carpets on the floor rich and luxurious, the woodwork even more so. Portraits hung on the wall; mostly of Papa, Mama, us, Grandmamma and Aunt Olga. The furniture was clearly Eastwood; Mama's preferred style. I looked at her; she was beaming, and despite her pallor a blush of happiness had rose in her cheeks. Her eyes cast about in the darkness for our host.

He appeared from behind a corner. Udak Yulot was a tiny man, hardly as tall as Anastasia. He was clearly Mongolian, yet he wore not the colorful tunics we saw most of his fellow citizens favored, but a sharply cut suit of what I presumed to be the latest fashion; he wore a tie that reminded me of Felix Yusupov. His little fingers held an unlit cigar, and when he saw us his hands flew up and the cigar dropped to the floor.

"Your Imperial Highnesses!" He cried, and he swept down in a low bow that for once seemed not to fluster mother but to please her. She straightened up and extended a grimy hand: Yulot kissed it at once, and then all of ours in turn (Mashka actually giggled!).

After Yulot had finished his greetings we were whisked away to hot baths in antique bathtubs and dried off with soft cotton towels. For once our captors did not follow us; Yulot had distracted them once again with food. While before they had been so attentive towards us, now they can hardly be bothered to look up from their plates. I've heard many of them grumbling about Gorogin and Vasilivich. 

The men want to go home. I've overheard them; they hate it here, and it is becoming something of a survival situation for them- some I've even heard discussing desertion. I'd hazard a guess that most even want to leave for good and give up on their long awaited revolution. I think the harshness of it has dampened their hate for us and made escapists out of them. They just want to get away. But don't we all?

After out baths we were dressed in expensive, stiff boned dresses from the 70s; they seemed to be the only ones Yulot had. I assumed they must be his wife's, for I've spotted a number of pictures around the house of a tiny little Mongolian woman dressed in rich but outdated Western clothing. Indeed, they are far too small on Tatiana and Marie- the skirts float at ankle length and Marie is practically falling out of her dress. The skirts just skim the top of my feet, but Anastasia's dress fit her perfectly. We came downstairs in time for dinner to see Mama sitting at Yulot's right hand side and four chairs waiting for us girlies. And a scrumptious looking dinner as well.

"Of course I would not allow those boors to touch such food," Yulot said in an odd little accent as we sat down. "So they are out in the yard; dog for them tonight!" He laughed, showing sharp little teeth. Marie blanched and the rest of us flinched, but mother did not react. She was oddly expressionless.

Yulot looked us over appraisingly. "I'm sorry about the dresses; they are my sister's and she's never quite outgrown the style. I see they're quite small on you; I'll have a seamstress fix that." He paused for a minute and we all ate in silence. He stared at his food for awhile, apparently lost in thought. He cleared his throat suddenly, and looked at mother, who hadn't touched her food, but was instead staring all around her, her eyes soaking up the civilization.

"Your Highness… The Grand Duchess Olga Alexandrovna?" He asked, slanted Mongolian eyes filled with fear. He was afraid they'd killed her. Like everyone else.

Mother laughed bitterly. "Safe. Escaped, to the Crimea, and later London."

Yulot relaxed visibly, but guilt must have overcome him quickly.

"I am so sorry about-"

Mother raised a stiff hand in a gesture of silence. "No. No, I think I shall retire. I do not feel very well."

The discussion was ended, and so was dinner. Tatiana leapt from her seat (as easily as she could in that dress, anyway) and led Mama out of the room. Yulot looked put out, and he stood and bowed before us once.

"My sister shall arrive tomorrow, and I'll have her bring the seamstress. Please, follow Gulan to your rooms. If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask. I am your humble servant," He said, sadly and stiffly, before bowing once more and exiting the room.

Marie, Anastasia and I finished our dinners in silence and followed Gulan to our rooms. Now I sit in a warm bed, writing in my diary, and for once out of from under the eyes of our horrid captors! Is there any greater happiness?

--

Mother.

Mother died last night. In her sleep. How can we still be alive? How can we still be living? Tatiana had stayed with her; she'd not been feeling well. She'd asked for Tati to take one of Yulot's pictures of Papa from the wall.

Tatiana said Mama said she really wanted the one from Ducky's wedding, the one with her and Uncle Ernest and Papa all kidding around and making faces.

Tati said Mama grasped her hand and asked her to stay through the night, she said she didn't feel so well. "Just in case," She said. Just in case. Just in case she died. I can barely write the words. How could it have happened? How, how, how? She slipped away in her sleep, she just simply stopped living. Now we are all alone, just us four girls. And Mama is with Papa and Baby. At least she will be happy there.

--  
I have spent the day in bed, running Mama's pearl through my fingers. I can hardly move. I hardly have the strength the push my pen across paper. Grief has sapped it.

Marie only lies by Mama's side weeping, and Tati sits in a corner and does not move. Anastasia has shut herself up in a room and is screaming at the walls in anger. Yulot and his sister hover around the fringes. People come and go. Something is happening, but I don't know what, I do not care. Our captors have not entered the house. When I'd gained the strength to look out the window, I'd not seen them. When they were told of Mama's death, if they even had been, they made no noise. A ring of rather tough looking Mongolians circles the house instead. They have weapons. Are we being kept in or someone being kept out? Who knows? Wherever our normal captors may be, I do not care. I hope they burn in hell, I hope they burn forever, for what they did to my family, to my Papa and brother, and now to my Mama.

I cannot write anymore.

--

A doctor came. He examined mother. He said heart failure was the cause of death. I am not surprised. Whose heart would not fail in such circumstances as ours? It will be a wonder if we don't all succumb.

Yulot's sister made us eat, and we did, too weak to protest. Anastasia has stopped screaming, and now only lays in bed, her fists clenched and her face a mask of sorrow and rage. Tati still does not 

move. Marie lies in bed, like me, exhausted by her weeping. The funeral is tomorrow, Yulot tells me. He asks me how I should like Mama buried. Buried. In this hateful land? So far from her home? No, no, not ever.

--

I stood today for the first time in two days. I have a duty to my sisters. I am now their mother. I must be strong for them.

I told Yulot I wanted to have Mother's body cremated.

"We will scatter her ashes at home."

"When?" He asked me. "It is too dangerous for you to even think of returning."

Someday, I told him, we will go home, and we will lay Mama to rest there.

We cremated Mama's body in the back yard: I'd helped Fanya, Yulot's sister, pick a dress for her to wear. The one Emma had given her. I wrote out a prayer and poem which I placed in her hands, along with the portrait of Papa she had clutched when she passed. We girls were very brave. We all dressed finely, as Mama would have wanted, and chanted all her favorite prayers, and not a one of us wept, not even Mashka. After the fire had consumed her body we retrieved her ashes and put them in a fine Wedgewood urn that Yulot gave us. Wedgewood was Mama's favorite pottery. Again, no sign of our captors. No sign of anyone but ourselves and the gentle scurrying sounds of Yulot's servants.

I lay in my bed now, exhausted to the very bone but unable to sleep. Tati sits by the window and is still and silent. She does not speak, she never does. Only to Mama and now Mama is dead. Marie and Anastasia have collapsed into a deep slumber. All is quiet but the scratching of my pen.

I finger Mama's engagement ring around my neck. It is all I have left of her. It is all, aside from my sisters, that I have left of home.

--

Gunshots woke us in the night. Gunshots and screams.

We all jumped up in our beds, aside from Tatiana, who barely turned from the window. We sat in silent terror, unable to move.

"What…?" Asked Anastasia finally, her voice rusty from screaming.

"They killed them."

It was Tatiana. She was still staring out the window. "They killed the Reds. Gorogin, Vasilivich. Every last one." She said this as if she was commenting on the weather, eyes still glued to the window.

Anastasia was the first out of bed- she ran to the window and stared out. I too ran to the window at her gasp of horror. Gun smoke was rising from the windows of a shed in the backyard. Where our captors slept. Creeping blood stained the dusty earth around the shed, and with a bang the shed door flew open. Out marched the tough-looking Mongolians, followed by Yulot, dressed impeccably in a dashing suit of the latest style. Splattered in blood.

He turned around the doorway and lit a cigarette. He dropped his match on a small puddle of something in the shed's doorway, and it all went up in flames.

Marie let out a cry, and ran back to bed. Anastasia followed. Tati remained seated by the window, watching the shed burn. In a panic, I grabbed the nearest thing that resembled a weapon and ran down the stairs to confront Yulot.

I found him alone in the foyer, puffing at a cigarette as if it was the most natural thing in the world, examining his clothes in disappointment.

"What have you done?!" I screamed, terrified for myself, for my sisters. While it was all very well and good that he'd done away with our captors, the violence had stunned me. I couldn't think, I was paralyzed by horror.

Yulot looked up in surprise.

"Oh, dear Grand Duchess, please, do not be so alarmed!"

"Alarmed?!" I screamed back at him. "How can I not be alarmed, you just slaughtered twenty people!"

Yulot shook his head.

"Actually, only fifteen."

"Fifteen?!" I cried, and then, again, in confusion, "Fifteen?"

"Yes," He replied patiently, as he wiped blood from his shoes with a handkerchief. "Only fifteen. Five came to me and made a deal. 'Let us go free and we'll not only cut off contact with the Reds for good and pretend this never happened, we'll also give you our weapons.' It _was _an excellent deal my dear Grand Duchess."

I stood there, chest heaving, hands clutching a hairbrush I was still brandishing as if it was a sword, unbelieving of what had just been said.

"We're free?" I asked, breathless, shocked.

Yulot laughed and shook his head. "Not quite. Take a seat."

My heart jumped and I clutched the brush tighter- did he mean to ransom us, or was he planning something yet more sinister?

But I sat, too scared to defy him. He sat across from me in one of his overstuffed parlor chairs and smiled at me in what he must have assumed to be a reassuring manner but what with his sharp little teeth only unnerved me further.

"No, you shall never be free as you think of it, because it is too dangerous for you to ever live 'freely' as long as the Reds control Russia. You shall have to hide for the rest of your life."

He sat silently, as if to let those words sink in, before speaking again.

"As far as the men in Moscow know, you and your family disappeared off the map shortly after entering Mongolia."

"Where will we go?" I asked him. Where indeed!

Yulot barely glanced at me as he lit another cigarette. "China, as was originally planned. The Chinese Emperor wants nothing to do with the Reds. He has offered you asylum."

"But the Reds know this! That's where we were supposed to be going anyways-"I started, but he cut me off with a wave of his cigarette.

"Of course, don't you see? You're hiding right beneath their noses. The Emperor's offer still stands. You will become part of his court, you will dress the part, and no one will ever know who you are. That is, if you wish to go there. If not… if not, we shall simply have to think of something else. "

I ran mother's pearl between my fingers again. What would she have done? China. It was safest. Pu Yi was an Emperor. I knew Emperors. I knew court. We could live there. No one would ever know.

"Let me speak with my sisters about it." I told Yulot, and he nodded.

"Very well. Let me know when you've decided; we'll do whatever we can to take care of you, your highness." And he nodded solemnly at me. I set down the brush and turned for the stairs.

Marie and Anastasia had no qualms about traveling to China, but I could tell straightaway that Tatiana wasn't warm to the idea.

"No," She said, without turning from the window. "No, I want to stay here. With Mama's ashes."

She wants to split up! My Tatisha! I begged her to reconsider, but she is firm. I shall try again tomorrow.

--

Still Tati refuses. "I am staying," She says.

I have cried long and hard over this fact this past week. I have done everything I could think of o persuade her to come with us. But she won't hear it.

--

We left today. Without my sister.

Yulot had taken me aside after my week of begging and pleading. He told me to let her stay. "We will take care of her," He said, and he was very kind about it. "You know what is best for your youngest siblings. Tatiana is a grown woman. She can make her own decisions. Just one of you here is not so dangerous. Let her stay. We will send her to you once she has recuperated from the shock."

She hardly looked at me when I said goodbye, and stiffened at my touch when I embraced her, weeping goodbyes and still, despite myself, pleading with her to follow us.

But all my cries of loneliness could not sway her. She saw us to the door, clutching mother's urn in her hands, her face a pallid mask, emotionless.

An old Model-T Ford was waiting, idling by the road. A little toothless old man sat at the wheel, grinning at us, we girls, now only three, dressed once again in Mongolian peasant rags, squeezing into the back seat of the car.

The engine started, and I looked frantically back at Yulot's door for Tatiana. She stood stock still, unmoving and unmoved, but for a trail of tears that now shone on her face like rain. We all waved frantically. Tatiana turned from the door in a violent motion and disappeared inside the house.

But our tears did nothing. She did not come back, and even if she had returned to the doorway, we wouldn't have seen her through the dust the automobile threw up into the air in its wake.

--

My heart is so heavy with sorrow it has become numb, and I am so tired my limbs feel as if they are made of stone. We girls sleep, and sleep, and sleep some more. I will wake for a little bit at a time, and every once in a while I might glimpse Mashka looking out the window with her wide sad eyes, or Anastasia staring at nothing with her hard ones. Then I fall back asleep, and so do they. It is too much to stay awake, to stay alive.

--

I woke for the first time, properly, today. We've all slept for nearly a week straight in this abominable car, which jostles and throws us about, and almost never stops. When does the driver ever sleep?

Marie and I have wasted away to practically nothing, and for once Anastasia has the figure of a ballerina, albeit with a rather unhealthy pallor.

We stopped by a roadside stand in some strange city. It took me awhile to realize the strange lettering on all the signs was Chinese.

We've made it to China.

I tried to ask the driver where we were, exactly, but he spoke no English. "Shanghai," He said, and he jabbed his finger out the window at the dirty, teeming city. "Manchuria."

For the life of me, if I'd only paid attention in geography lessons! Even Marie is stumped on this one. Anastasia seems to have perked up a bit, with the food and the new sights. Of course, with every moment of happiness we also feel incredible guilt, and our heads fill with thoughts of Tati, and Mama and Baby and Papa. It seems strange, but I miss Papa the most at times. His smile and his laughter. The way he'd call me over to read papers with him, to discuss books.

But I don't have time now, to think of these things. I have to take care of my sisters.

The first order of the day was shelter; a need that was to go unfulfilled. Yulot had given me the equivalent of 200 Rubles in emergency money, and we knew better than to leave a trail. So, sleep in the car we will.

The second order was that of food; I left the car (alone- as you can imagine, Anastasia was furious) and found a stand selling something that looked edible. We ate (I believe was chicken, but Anastasia said it was probably dog- vile little girl!) and then took in our surroundings through the dirty windows. There were too many Westerners; mostly French and British by the sound of it. The chance that they would know us if they saw us is too great.

Marie had pulled out our luggage, and was busy shifting through the dresses Emma and Yulot's sister had given us.

"Nice dresses, I suppose, but not nearly good enough to wear before an Emperor," Marie murmured.

--

We left Shanghai after breakfast. The driver never reappeared after last night, and I was becoming increasingly concerned- perhaps he was going to turn us in? So Anastasia stepped in and started the car herself, to my protestation. She's a bit of a skittish driver, and she has to crane her head to see over the wheel at times, but we're going, and we're free. Before we left she had us grab some petrol and a map from a local peddler, and now we are set. Just us girls. Just us three.

Marie made a detour while I was searching for petrol and returned with an abundance of beads and sequins, which we are now sewing onto our makeshift court gowns. Anastasia says we have another 3 days before we reach Beijing, and so we're very busy sewing patterns with the beads and sequins, and gathering the sleeves and so on and so forth. Marie is quite a genius at it; she's even fashioned kokoshniks for us all, and scarlet satin Orders for our shoulders. I'd never realized her creativity before.

--

"Sew, sew, and sew! That is all we do! But O I know, very soon we shall be through! "

That is our never ending refrain! I've sewn so much I fear my fingers shall fall off.

--

We have finished! And just in time; we have arrived. Beijing.

It is not much different from Shanghai; there are fewer Westerners, and it is, if possible, even dirtier. You could see the Emperor's palace from the city limits- a huge, hulking beast of a complex. It took us nearly an hour to make our way into the city, Anastasia hunched over the wheel and shouting in anger at all the darting rickshaws. Shortly before we reached the palace we pulled into a side alley. Anastasia ran off and returned 15 minutes later with a bucket of water: God knows where she got it, I shall not ask- but we washed off the car and buffed it with our old shirts until it shined like new. Marie threw scarlet blankets, given to us by Yulot, over the threadbare seats. Anastasia wanted to drive us in, but I was adamant; it would not be proper to drive ourselves in, and besides, we wanted to be inconspicuous, yet without appearing broke, didn't we? We wanted the Emperor to think we would bring something to the table. So I hired the most respectable looking man I could (a thin little Chinese man in a suit) to act as our chauffer.

We changed into our makeshift court gowns in the car. Marie- royal blue, Myself-forest green, and Anastasia- a rather garish orange of her own choosing. We headed towards the looming Palace.

We arrived at the huge, blood red wall which encircled the Forbidden City, and we drove up to the doors. Pu Yi's guards stood along the wall, silent. One finally broke away and approached us. He was a tall fellow and very severe looking. He spoke to the driver first, who jerked his head back at us, nervous. He then turned his slitted eyes on us, and spat out something in Chinese. I gripped my sister's hands beneath our large sleeves; to show fear was to show insecurity, and to show insecurity was to court loss of credibility. Hadn't mother's lessons taught us that?

"We're here to see The Guangdong Emperor. I am," And I said this with emphasis, waving an airy hand and making a show of my false finery. "The Grand Duchess Olga Nicolaevna Romanova, and these are my sisters-The Grand Duchesses Anastasia Nicolaevna and Marie Nicolaevna."

At our last name he seemed to become less suspicious; at Marie's even more so. He whipped out a picture and compared us, briefly. Then he turned abruptly and motioned to his men. The door slowly started to open, and the driver sputtered the car back to life once more. We slowly crawled into the Forbidden City square.

It was largely empty. A few hunched old women swept the patchy ground; grass and weeds sprouted up from cracks in the stonework. It looked as though even the Imperial Chinese court had come upon hard times. We rolled over to a solitary, waiting litter; we'd certainly have to squeeze to fit in it. But we all managed to pile in it. The litter took off at a jerky pace, a little Chinaman ran beside us, shouting instructions in perfect Russian.

"His Imperial Excellency is having tea. Having been made aware of your visit, he has decided to invite you to luncheon with him. You have had a house set aside for you in the Empress's complex. If you have any queries, please ask for me; Qin Qin. I spent several years in Russia. I know it all."

He hurried off down a darkened corridor. Anastasia looked to me, questioning, blue eyes clashing magnificently with her makeshift gown.

The litter came to a sudden halt outside a half-covered court yard, and we climbed out with as much dignity as our shaking legs could give us. We were lead inside. It was all very foreign; so much so and so different that I scarcely managed to notice the emperor before we were introduced.

He was so young! Younger even then Anastasia. Only 17. Only a boy. Yet still, an Emperor. His face lit up when he saw Marie.

'Ah, Marie Nicolaevna, the most beautiful Grand Duchess of all!"

He leapt up from his chair, and practically ran over to Marie, who hadn't even had time to curtsey. He was quite a bit shorter than her; only up to her collar bone, he stared up at her, eyes shining with mirth.

"I am very blessed to make your acquaintance. I have admired the Romanovs for a long time, and you especially, Grand Duchess."

Marie blushed furiously, which only made the emperor smile more. He stood back from her after a moment, and took us all in.

"Grand Duchess Olga Nicolaevna; the clever one-" He said, as he turned to me. "I have been told very much about you. I am very sorry to hear about your father and-"

"That's quite enough, your Highness." Rang a clear, English voice- a tall, thin, bearded man in a European suit of fashionable cut stepped out of the shadowed veranda. The emperor cast a glance backwards, and actually stepped aside, like a trained monkey. I noticed the glint of jealousy in his eunuch attendants' eyes. The Englishman stepped forwards, before bending into a deep bow.

"Your Imperial Highnesses, what an immense pleasure it is to finally meet you. I was acquainted with your cousins, Eddie and Georgie. Good boys. They are all quite fond of you there. Howard Johnson, his imperial highness's tutor."

He offered a modest bow to me, and his eyes flitted over us, faltering when he noticed Tati was not among us, but saying nothing. He instead sat down near the Emperor and motioned that we all should follow suit. The eunuchs glared balefully.

We sat in silence for quite a few minutes, while Johnson surveyed us. Anastasia stared back murderously, probably trying to provoke a reaction from him, perhaps an apology on the behalf of England. But none was forthcoming. Instead, he leaned in quite suddenly, as the silence had reached a manic pitch.

"Of course, we all realize how extraordinarily delicate this situation is. All of this is happening without any kind of legitimate sanction- no words have been exchanged between prime ministers or council men, no treaties drafted. As far as the Soviets know, you're all lying in a shallow grave in Outer 

Mongolia. All that is protecting you from total annihilation at this point is the guilt of your relatives, the depth of their pockets, and the skills of their spies. Luckily, forgive the boast, you have England behind you. But we won't be there long. You must be lost. Forever."

We could not reply; Marie's dress crinkled loudly as she shifted. I felt sun beating down on me, though little actually reached the courtyard. The child Emperor sat still and grave. Johnson paused to sip at some tea before continuing.

"The emperor has many wives and female relatives. It will not be difficult to hide you among them if you dress and play the part. Your Uncle George has allocated 40,000 pounds to gain you security. You will live separately from the other women, unknown to all but the fewest people. Tell no one anything. Your names are no longer your names. You are no longer Grand Duchesses, so those dresses must go. You are no longer sisters."

Another heavy silence met this, but we all, save for Marie, whose eyes swam slightly, were stone-like.

"And why can't we face exile in England with our family?" I asked, as imperiously as possible.

Johnson shrugged. "The risk is simply too great on many sides. You must hide here. It is the only secure life we can provide for you at this time."

We sat silently. Johnson sighed and looked at the Emperor, who gazed back at us with a mixture of pity and curiosity on his face.

--

**goes to china, meets pu yi and Johnson, live for a time in court, unable to leave, meets and falls in love with guard, Jhou Ru . **

_The Emperor introduced us to his two wives; the many concubines he kept hovered, un-introduced, around the palace, like gaudy butterflies. They didn't approach us; they merely flitted about the periphery of our vision. The one wife, Lao Cxi, Pu Yi's favorite, was a plump, common looking girl with a high pitched voice and a merry manner; however, she was only his secondary wife; his first wife, Zhu Rong, was much more beautiful, and much less cheerful. She hardly seemed awake as she greeted us; her eyes wandered around the complex, uninterested in Pu Yi's chatter. _

_Our 'house' was quite small at only one story; it held a small dining room, a plain little salon that opened to a relatively large courtyard for the size of the house , an overgrown porch and two bedrooms, separated by a sliding screen. Anastasia was the first to realize that our shoes actually tore up the rice matting on the floors, and so we were all forced to walk about in our stocking feet. This wasn't a pleasant experience; the ceiling had leaked rain water in some places, and every few feet one of us would stumble in to a lukewarm puddle. Our bedrooms were furnished with two simple, low lying beds a _

_piece. The slip covers were richly embroidered, but the frames were plain. Marie flung open a wardrobe; to our surprise, it was filled top to bottom with beautiful silk Chinese court gowns, and even a few western tea gowns. Pu Yi had pinned a note to the inside of the door; _

_"Please, take these garments for your use. The tea gowns are a special gift; but secret! You must not wear them outside of your new quarters! Have many suns!" _

_We made further discoveries; wooden block shoes with six new pairs of stockings; a makeup kit, which was kept, along with an impressive array of wigs and hair ornaments in a tiny dressing room that was hidden behind the bedrooms. Behind our house we found a small shed; servant's quarters. Again, Anastasia was the first to discover the name of our servant, who was a eunuch, which quite horrified us all; he was a portly but sweet faced man- Xiu Li Chu. _

_It was quite strange, being attended to by a man (or what had been a man). But Xiu Li Chu acted with such kindness and decorum that it was not long before we were hard at work to break his practiced expression of professional disinterest; Anastasia monkeyed about him, Marie offered to style his queue; to no avail. By our third day in 'protective house arrest' we had received our 'schedule'- the list of times and places we could move about freely. Anytime there was to be a foreign delegation, we had to stay in the house. Anytime Pu Yi was being attended by his ministers, we had to stay in the house. Indeed, all week long, unless invited to do else wise, we were ordered to remain expressly within the Empress's complex. We did have some visitors; from time to time Qin Qin would flit in- mostly to converse with Xiu Li Chu for a few moments before departing in a flurry. But we quickly became a pet project for Pu Yi's two wives; Zhu Rong and Lao Cxi came to visit us as often as they could, often loaded down with presents; sometimes sweets, sometimes toys, but more often than not, western clothing and furnishings, which they would implore us to put to use, while snapping pictures with their Kodaks of us in dramatic poses. Their special favorite was Marie- they would dress her, powder her, and slather her in an odd assortment of antique western and western-looking Chinese jewels. They posed her as a pensive queen; a tragic heroine; Anastasia became a woodland imp, a laughing actress. Their favorite pose for me was particularly cumbersome; they had somehow collected an old suit of armor, and delighted in fitting me into it; "Joan of Acc!" They mispronounce it, laughing and snapping away with their cameras. They're good sports though; when we become tired they are the first to stop the fun and join us in a quiet tea; they have gone to great lengths to make us comfortable; Lao Cxi cajoled Pu Yi into buying Russian cold tea and a samovar, and now we all enjoy it whenever they visit us. _

_We were introduced to our guard today; 6 men, trained, Pu Yi assures us, in every fighting art known to the Chinese (I must confess, without guns in their hands, I am still quite nervous). Xiu Li Chu regarded them with suspicion- they were not eunuchs, and therefore untrustworthy. Whenever he caught Anastasia trying to provoke a reaction out of one of them, he would feign calamity and bring her back inside, under the banner of protection. _

_My first interaction with our guard was quite routine; Anastasia had nearly sprained her ankle on one of the wedge shoes we were to wear; she insisted I find something to cut it down to a reasonable height, and so I was forced to approach our guard; Xiu Li Chu was occupied with Qin Qin, arguing in the _

_dining room about an incoming shipment of clothing (by that time, we had so much we were running out of places to put it all!), and so I had no difficulty sneaking to the perimeter of our 'property'. I approached the tallest man; he had a particularly watchful expression, and I wanted to head him off at the start; _

** Pu Yi is dethroned in the 20s,Marie stays behind with Pu Yi, Anastasia runs away, Jhou Ru is killed during the unrest. Olga escapes from the Forbidden City with the help of Illya to Alaska, falls in love with Illya who returns to Russia to fight in the civil war, Anastasia moves to Germany and makes her claims, becomes famous as Anna Anderson **

**30s-40s-50s Olga learns to live in Alaska (breaks leg while hunting, nearly dies in wilderness), Marie writes her from Manchuria and later, after deportation, from a prison camp, writes her that Yulot has apparently died. She escapes from her captors and lives through WWII in Moscow, too afraid to visit home. (Marie is found and executed after the siege of Leningrad) Olga hears that Illya is at the front. **

**50s-60s Olga sneaks out of Alaska by boat and goes to Mongolia to see a dying Tatiana, and so Tatiana can die at home and spread Alexandra's ashes (they travel to St. Petersburg), returns to China, sees PuYi the gardener one last time and a very elderly Emma, who is still wandering the desert and dressed as if it's 1910. She finds that Ilya is a decorated war hero, and he is unwilling to speak with her out of fear for his life. She leaves for Hong Kong and is waylaid in Kowloon, the walled city. She later escapes after fomenting a cry for reform in the residents and convincing the British governor of her identity.**

"_Home. Home. I am home. I forced my way in after dark. I crept to my and Tatiana's room. It was untouched, as we had left it. The Germans had not ransacked the palace. It was forgotten. Just like us. Tatiana's hairbrush lay on the dresser. My old clothes still hung in the closet. My books lay undisturbed on the shelves. My nice shoes, now covered in dust, lay discarded on the floor, next to our armoire. I picked them up and carried them with me to Mama's boudoir. Little puffs of dust flew up around my feet. I sat in Papa's chair. A book lay on the end table, turned over to hold a place; with no one to pick it up and finish the story. Gogol. Papa's. I bent over with some difficulty, and slid my shoes off. I blew the dust from the shoes I had brought from my room and pulled them on. They still fit. Just as I remembered them. I approached the tea table, and the round sofa. Mama's pastels of us girls still hung upon the wall. Pictures of family members crowded the table tops, so covered in dust that I could not tell who they were of. One of Mama's shawls lay thrown across the chaise lounge. Dry flowers still stood in a vase. Lilacs, her favorite. Tears stung my eyes; her things were everywhere, and so full of her. I left the boudoir, for Marie and Anastasia's room. Things were much the same. Still, bathed in dust. Glasses left where they were; we'd left our rooms such a mess, expecting our servants to clean them in our stead. It appeared as though they never had the chance. Some of Marie's lustrous hair still clumped to her brush. Anastasia's clothes lay in disarray all across the room. Her drawings and paintings, still somewhat fresh in the half light, remained in their places, tacked to the wall. Their perfumes lay scattered across their dressers, one having cracked, apparently in the cold, so that the room smelled faintly of jasmine. _

_Father and Mother's room was the only room which was visibly disturbed. Mother's icons were untouched, but her photographs had been scattered across the floor, her cosmetics and her books torn to pieces. Nothing of father's was touched. His books still lay in the kind of neat little stack he preferred. A cup of Russian tea sat on his bed stand. Even the mold in it had died._

_I walked past Alexei's room. I could even from the doorway see that it was still the same as we had left it. Toys still standing in the corners, bed sheets still disheveled. I walked past mother's elevator, which was stuck in between this floor and the next, so I could only see the top part. One of her wheelchairs stood in the hall. I walked down the stairs, slowly, for my old broken leg ached in the cold. By the time I made it back to the ground floor I was winded. But I had somewhere I needed to see. _

_The door was hidden behind a servant's staircase. Very plain, unassuming. Mother had always been very modest. I jiggled the doorknob- locked, of course. I brushed my hand along the top of the doorframe, and I found the old key. It fit in the rusty lock with a screech, and turned in loud protest despite my efforts to remain silent. The door slipped open with another loud screech. The inside was dark; electricity, of course, had been cut off years ago. But I remembered that Mama and Papa had never gotten around to paying for the gas to be taken out. I felt along the wall for the old turn switch, and prayed that the oil would still work. I turned it, not really expecting anything, but miracle of miracles, the room came to life with a faint sputter. Mama's wardrobe shimmered dully before me. It stretched beyond my vision; all the things she's worn throughout her life. Shoes on one wall, hats on the other, dresses, rack upon rack of them, down the middle. Untouched, probably because no one had ever found it. For whatever reason, it, like most of the house, was undisturbed. _

_I walked down the aisles, clearing dust from the little signs that separated the dresses by date. Mother never threw a dress away. 'It could always come back in fashion,' she was fond of saying. Not that she ever cared much for fashion. The dates passed before me like water; with each of them I was thrown back in time to a date, a memory. 1914. The War. 1913. The Tercentenary. 1910. Uncle Bertie Dies. 1905. The First Revolution. 1901. Alexei. 1895. I am born. 1894. Mama comes to Russia. Those dresses looked so small. I slipped out of my tattered dress, my dull soviet clothes. I pulled a dress from the rack. The little tag on it read; "Coming Out, 1890." I slipped it on; it fit snugly, but well. I nearly dislocated my arm trying to reach the zipper, but it was worth it. I climbed the stairs, slowly again, to Mama's room. I looked in the mirror, and my mother stared back at me. A frightened, sad, care-worn old woman. But still proud. Always proud. I turned in the dark; the little rhinestones threw a dazzle of light dapples across the room. I stared for a moment at my reflection, and suddenly, something struck me. I hobbled back down the steps and back into Mama's wardrobe as fast as I could. I threw on dress after dress; I waltzed down hallway after hallway, room after room flashing by. Memories sprung to my mind, so fresh and real that I seemed to have been transported back in time. Why, there was Fredericks! Papa and Mama sat in her boudoir, taking tea. My sisters swirled around me like ghosts of happier days. A thousand memories flew past. Grandmother. Alexei. Derevenko. After what felt an eternity, I came to a breathless stop and slid to the floor. It was becoming dark out. I walked back to my old room, and climbed under the dusty covers of my old bed. I slept soundly, wrapped in one of Mama's old furs and Papa's old jacket. Home. "_

**60s-70s Returns to Alaska, visits Anastasia in Virginia, where she is horrified to find her mostly mad, tries to persuade her to seek help, or at least return with her to Alaska. Anastasia kicks her out, and Olga, depressed, returns to Alaska by plane. Friends slowly pass away; Pu-Yi, Ilya, Felix Yusupov. **

**88-92 Epilogue: meets young man from KGB and befriends him before she dies, tells him her story. He flies her body back to St. Petersburg and bribes a man to bury her on the Children's Island with her pearl, alongside Tatiana and Alix's ashes. **

_She was very, very old. The picture they had given me was useless, of course. To find any similarities between this 18 year old girl and that 89 year old woman would be impossible. _

_She leaned in towards me and smiled. I noticed a gap between her front teeth- just like the Tsarina. _

_"Oh, you poor boy, do you really want to hear my boring little story?" _

_The Alexander Palace was still unoccupied, undisturbed. It'd been inventoried in 90, just after the fall. They'd found a few dresses missing, a pair of shoes. A book. That was all. The grounds were overgrown, the little lake choked with weeds. _

_The man grunted as he shoveled the last clods of earth over the grave. "Why'd she wanna be buried here anyways? Sad looking place, if you ask me." _

_"It was her home. Once." _


End file.
